Scream
by kamelion
Summary: Mark captures more on his camera than he bargains for, and pays the price. Language. MarkRogerCollins friendship with appearances by the others.
1. Chapter 1

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This is my first real venture into this fandom. The Rent characters aren't mine, but they are too good to just set down. The character of Ms. Willie is based on the homeless lady in the movie that Mark films right before "Santa Fe". She made quite an impact in that scene, and I couldn't get her out of my head. So I gave her a name, and here she is. Reviews are great should you feel like leaving one, helps me to figure out what work and what doesn't. :)

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He didn't think it was possible to hurt this badly. Mark coughed himself into consciousness and curled onto his side, vaguely aware of the small street pebbles that dug into his cheek. He was dying. He knew it, he felt awful. Everything ached, burned. His stomach felt like a stone, his chest flamed with the need to vomit. His head throbbed. Wincing did nothing to clear his blurry vision, and all he could do was lay there and gasp, squeezing his eyes tight shut, wanting desperately to cry and knowing it was a stupid thought. He settled for sucking in air, trying not to get sick, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to him.

Two figures. He remembered that. Broad daylight too, but they came from behind him. He never stood a chance. And now he was on the ground, it wasn't as light, and apparently no one had come to his aid. Wherever the hell he was. He figured back in the slightly coherent part of his mind that he was in an alley. That was as far as the facts got him. Another cough pained his ribs and forced him to press upwards on the heels of his hands to ease the pressure. Better. No, no, not better, everything was spinning. Back down again.

Down hurt his ribs. Damn it. He growled in anger and would have fisted the pavement if he wasn't already hurting.

"Well, look at you. If it ain't the film maker hisself. You got mugged, honey?"

He knew that voice. It was from long ago, coupled with a feeling of embarrassment that stayed with him. It was all he could do to twist his body and gaze up at yet another dark figure. At least this one wasn't pummeling him to death. "Who are you?"

"Don't you remember me? I'm your friendly neighborhood project." She leaned over. "You're that boy with the camera, ain't you? I'd know that pale hair and scarecrow body anywhere. You look like you's as homeless as I am. Funny how I got some weight on you, when you's got that camera."

Mark squinted up in confusion.

She tutted and bent down. "S'pose I have to get you up. My back ain't built right for this, so if I scream out, you best let go and run like hell. Cops'll come."

Mark managed a snicker. "They'd be too late. And running isn't in my immediate future." He gritted his teeth. It even hurt to talk, and he was seconds away from emptying his stomach.

Somehow the lady had managed to lean all the way over, her dark eyes angling with his own. "They did you up good, didn't they?"

"Seems it."

"What's your name, boy?"

Mark opened his mouth, and gaped like a fish.

"Uh-huh. That's a nasty cut on your head. It's what I thought. Terrific. I ain't interested in taking care of no film maker wannabe sucking on my generosity." She rose with difficulty, and pointed at him. "I'll go get you some help. Don't need to be out here like this. S'pose you got friends, but ain't no good getting your friends when you don't even know who you are. Artist. I ain't a artist, and I know who I am. Course I ain't got a golfball on my head neither. You stay right there. I'll go get someone and they can get you to one of those clinics. I ain't going in there, they always lead me to a soup kitchen, and I tell you now, the soup sucks." She jabbed her finger toward him to make her point, and started off slowly.

"Wait!" Mark was suddenly terrified. "I don't need a clinic. I can't pay for a clinic." He frowned, tugging at his mind. He was pretty sure he couldn't pay. Hell, if he couldn't even remember his name, how was he going to come up with money? Gingerly he ran his fingers over his front pockets as he leveled himself off the alley floor. Checked the back. No dough. At lease he was right about something.

"Hm. Can you stand?"

Mark managed a wry smile. "Can you help me?"

"Guess you want me to bend down again. Throw my back out. You'll have to find a way to pay for that if I can't straighten again because of you. Come on." She reached down and grabbed his arm. "Jesus to Thomas, boy, you ain't got no meat on you nowhere! You's even thinner than you look!"

Mark wasn't sure it was possible to be thinner than what one looked like, but he accepted the help and didn't comment. The world swam around him, pain seized every nerve, and he gasped loudly. His vision was a little more clear, but not by much.

She leaned into his face. "You are hurt. Bad. Sure you don't want to go to no clinic?"

"No . . .clinic . . ." he managed to gasp.

"Shame. I'd hate to leave you here." He sent her a wide-eyed, half unseeing glare. "Lord have mercy on my soul. Look. I'll take you somewhere if you can walk, it ain't far. That is, if you ain't afraid of a few homeless folk."

"Best offer I've had so far," he muttered.

She looked at him, and shook her head. "You really don't remember your name?"

Mark thought so hard he winced. "No."

"Damn. Come on then."

He managed to hobble beside her, swerving occasionally, and she just waddled beside him and steadied him. They walked like that for some time, until he was certain he was lost, more due to his lack of sight than anything. The sky was darker, the bustle of the streets behind him noisy, and yet they seemed to be descending into a hole. He winced, forcing his vision to cooperate, but only got a sense of where they were. Dizziness assaulted him at once, and he crashed to his knees, hearing the lady curse above him and call out. More hands grabbed him, but he didn't have the strength to bat them away. He was led to a blanket set on the hard ground, and gently laid there. A cool cloth appeared from nowhere and started dabbing at his head. The pain rose in vivid reds and blacks, and he passed out.

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Roger knew good and well that Mark should be back. It was dark. He always made an appearance at some point through the day, or called, if nothing else to make sure that he had taken his pill. The daily reminder was more out of fear on Mark's part than necessity, a way to contribute to an undeniable fact and ease it. It was guilt, it was terror, it was the only way Mark could help. And being the overly helpful sort of person, he reminded Roger daily, sometimes twice, to take his AZT. It was a pain in the ass, and Roger missed it.

The clock read seven pm. "He would have at least called."

"You sound like a worried old hag," Collins chuckled and snapped the newspaper he held. "Not like you." He continued reading.

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean usually you're more worried about what you're going to do than what he's currently doing."

"That's not true." Roger paused. "Is it?"

Collins lowered the paper and raised a brow.

"Damn. I'll have to watch that."

"Yep."

Roger paced for a moment. "What about the riot? I was worried about him then."

"Yeah. So worried that when I asked about him you said you didn't know where he was and went inside." The voice was casual, distracted by the print before him.

"I didn't! He was up front, I never made it up that far! I told Mimi to head for him, but we ended up in the center, you know. Then all that crap started, there was no way to see him, much less get to him."

"Uh-huh."

"Look, someone grabbed Angel and we hightailed it out of there!"

"Uh-huh." Collins tensed slightly at the mention of Angel's name, but Roger pretended not to notice. He couldn't pussyfoot around the death, as agonizing as it was, and he wasn't going to try to. It had been long enough to where Collins could talk about it openly. That didn't mean he wouldn't tense up. It was to be expected, so Roger expected it, and dismissed it.

He looked out of the huge loft windows, wondering why the hell he was having to defend himself. The events played in his mind, the jostling, yelling, screaming, Maureen trying to calm everyone then finally fleeing herself. He remembered grabbing Mimi, saw Collins grab Angel, felt himself shoved back through the entrance. It occurred to him that, to this day, he had no idea exactly where Mark was, how he managed to film what he did without breaking his neck. His concern was to get out, get his friend around him out, and he knew they would meet up as planned at the café. And he had waited, anxiously, hovering beside the door, and practically pounced once Mark entered. That stupid grin on Mark's face had made him feel like an idiot for worrying. He turned quickly. "I waited for him."

"And what about the time he was jumped in that alley?" Collins' eyes were still on the print.

"He was fine!" Roger's arms sailed up in exasperation. "He climbed a fence."

"So you dismissed it."

"No, I didn't! For your information, I was the one that . . . look, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Just raggin' ya, boy. Seeing if you're really as concerned as you say you are." Collins grinned and folded his paper cheekily.

Oh, that was just . . ."Bastard." Roger waved him away. He was used to the ribbing, especially in Mark's absence. Sure, Collins had a few years on them, but at times it seemed that he used his age and 'higher education' more as a means of tolerance toward his young friend. Roger had taken to calling him 'old man' on occasion, when his ragging became too much. It was about there now, either that or he was going to kick the overly-educated african-american anarchist-wannabe back to his motherland.

He walked into Mark's room. It was messier than usual, Mark was a pretty mean picker-upper when it came to his personal things, to the point of mothering Roger when he was in a slump. Mark did his laundry once. Once. Never again. This mess meant he was distracted, but by what? He could have been distracted by a project, but that hadn't happened since . . . _what the hell_ . . ? Roger bent down slowly and picked up a pair of wire-framed glasses, the frames bent beyond repair. This wasn't good. "Hey Collins," he said slowly as he exited the room, "didn't Mark bust up his black pair of glasses last week?"

"Think so. He was bitchin' about how he had only one pair left." Roger didn't respond, he just held up the wire-rimmed glasses for Collins to see. "Damn." The larger man shrugged. "Guess he must've gone for another pair."

"With what?" Money meant nothing in the loft, other than 'lofty dreams'.

"Hell've I know. He's resourceful."

"If he's so resourceful, then why don't we have any food around here?"

"'Cause you eat it all? Uh-huh, don't give me that look, I used to live here too, you know." Collins stood and tucked the paper underneath his arm. "Like a damn rat, you are, always nibblin'."

Roger grimaced. "Don't you have a class to teach or thinking to do or something?"

"As a matter of fact, I have to go and write my novel that will change the course of mankind as we know it. It's called 'Give a little'." He grinned. " I'll forward you an advance copy."

"Funny." Roger looked around, his hands on his hips. "Guess I'll go look for Mark."

"Uh . . .that would mean actually leaving the loft."

"Goodbye, Collins!"

"Later." He chuckled and fisted Roger's arm, and picked up his paper cup. He downed the remained of his drink, crushed the cup, and tossed it towards the trash can. "Let me know if he doesn't turn up, all right?"

"Yeah, I'll do that." All annoyance aside, he knew he could count on Collins in a pinch. Roger relaxed into a appreciative half-smile. The door slid closed, and he stared at it for a moment, feeling oddly empty in the silence. Collins was always good for a laugh, or discussion, and his presence filled the loft with a vibrating hum that was a natural pick-me-up, despite the jibes. He had no idea how the man did it, but now that he had gone, Roger found that he needed that comfort, that energy.

His eyes drifted over to the bicycle leaning against the wall. So Mark hadn't gone riding that morning, meaning logically that he was within walking distance. _I_ _shouldn't have stayed at Mimi's last night_, Roger thought sullenly. He couldn't help it. She was growing weaker, slowly, but still. He wanted to spent what time they had left together. Mark understood that, hell, he pressed the issue, insisting that he was fine, go on, be with her. In fact, he grew downright angry about it, so Roger left.

It was quite a change in attitude for him, but if Angel's death had taught him something, it was how . . .complete. . . death was. He still expected to see a brightly colored skirt whirl into the loft, or hear drum beats along the stair rails. Instead he frequented the grave, filled with unanswered questions. With any luck Mimi would overcome this latest bout of weakness, of illness. _She did look better this morning_, he told himself. _Hell, I could have at least called Mark, checked on him, something. No telling when he left_. This new concern was different for him, too. Hadn't been all that long ago when he packed up and abandoned his friends, left for Santa Fe to pursue his dreams, to escape. He left Mark alone with no further thought about it, and it was his love for Mimi that pulled him back. But upon his return, did he seek her out? No. Instead he apologized to Mark, first.

His wandering eyes fell on a green object dangling from the bicycle's handlebar, nearly hidden in shadow. He took a curious step forward, and froze. Mark's camera bag. His forehead pinched and he reluctantly walked over to the bag that looked too full. Sure enough, the camera was inside.

Mark never, never left his camera behind.

He couldn't explain the dark panic that filled him as he rushed back into Mark's room. No, nothing was disturbed, nothing looked out of the ordinary, well, other than the clothes scattered about, yet his search was urgent. And there it was, his thin brown coat, and his scarf. Roger picked them both up, then flung them down in anger. "Fuck." He should've check earlier, rather than returning and plopping his ass on the couch, self-absorbed with his guitar and pity. He'd been doing so well, now he was allowing himself to fall back into that trap? "Fuck!" Bike, camera, coat, scarf, broken glasses . . .

Roger grabbed his leather jacket and ran out of the loft, desperate to catch up with Collins.


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't have it! I don't know what you're talking about!" Mark's voice cut through the night, slurred and desperate. In his mind, the figures hovered over him, yelling at him, kicking him. He remembered being pulled out of a big room, being hauled away, feeling pain, yelling in fear, and being left alone.

"Damn, boy, can't you be quiet? People are trying to sleep down here!" It was the lady. He opened his eyes to see her glaring at him. At least his vision was better, but still blurred. The night loomed around him, and he had no idea where he was.

"Sorry," he choked, and sat up against the rough brick wall that provided the backdrop of the tent city he found himself in. His body felt stiff, like he had risen from the dead and forgotten how to move. The air around him smelled stale.

The lady closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, pulling her blanket tightly around her thick body. She breathed out a sigh, was still for a moment, then opened her eyes, sending a glare at Mark. "I'm awake now."

"I said I'm sorry. Really." He rubbed his hand over his face, wincing at the pain. Distorted images filled his mind, and he couldn't make sense of them. He pulled his hand away.

Her face softened as she watched him. "You're so young. I ain't as old as I look, though. Street's do that to ya. Why you making a film?"

"What?" Mark shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"What's your name?"

Mark just shook his head again.

"Let me look at you."

Not knowing what else to do, he slowly inched his way to her side, and she pinched his chin between two thick fingers and angled his head in the light of the fire barrel. "Mm-hm. Got a goose egg, all right. Bleeding's stopped, they patched you up good. We used to getting knocked about. We know how to patch things up. How's your ribs?"

"Sore."

"Lay down."

He looked at her for a moment, then slowly eased himself onto the cold ground. Her hands ran over his torso, carefully pushing, and pulling back as he winced. "Think you just got some bruising. Nothing busted up in there. You look better than you did."

"I feel better." He grunted as she pushed particularly hard. "I think."

"You best be making up your mind if you feel better or not. Once you get passed that, maybe you'll remember who you are. Got that memory loss thing." She patted his arm as he sat up. "You'll get it back."

"Considering what happened, do I want it back?"

"S'up to you, boy. You wanna stay here for the rest of your life? Cause I don't see you going out there like this, you look like a scared rabbit in headlights. Best figure out who you are."

"This is absurd," he sighed, lowering his head. A pain like a pressing bullet pierced his skull, and he raised his head again. "Damn it!"

"I take it that didn't work."

He gave her an impatient glance.

"Oh well. Least you tried."

Mark sighed deeply and rested his head against the wall. He never felt so lost. Best thing to do in a situation like that was to work with distraction. "What's your name?"

"What did you say?"

"I said what is your name? Please don't ask me to repeat it again, I suddenly don't feel like talking anymore." He had gone pale, even more so than he already was, and she noticed.

"Wilhelmina," she said softly. "They called me Ms. Willie. Now they don't call me much anything."

"How'd you end up here?"

"Thought you didn't feel like talkin'?"

"Humor me." The pain was returning, full force. He didn't want to breathe.

She inhaled as she gathered her thoughts. "Lord, no one's asked me that. Been so long, can't rightly remember. My husband died. My daughter died. Didn't have no friends. Got to where I couldn't work no more. Didn't have no records, no papers to get no social security. I lost everything."

"What happened to your papers?"

"Fire. Burnt down the whole apartment building. Happened, oh, ten, fifteen years ago now."

Mark managed to raise his head. "You've been living on the streets for that long?"

"Lord, no. Lived with my daughter for eight. She got killed."

"You never filed for your papers?"

She snorted. "I filed. I waited. I got tired of waiting."

"But eight years . . ."

"So I filed late, okay? What are you, the DA?" She shrugged. "I kept putting it off. I didn't think my daughter was gonna die, get taken from me by some drugged asshole bastard. They raped her, you know that? Raped her, stabbed her, left her for dead. Well, she died, all right. Didn't care anymore. Police wrote it up and left me standing on the sidewalk." She sniffed. "Still don't care. It's a fucked up system, boy, and a fucked up world. That's why I want to know what you're really filming. Ain't gonna do you a damn bit a good, but I wanna know anyways."

"Wish _I_ knew."

"You and me both. I hate being curious. Make my brain work or something, and that just gets people in trouble."

Mark chuckled painfully. "Thanks for your help, Ms. Willie," he said softly.

She huffed and pulled her blanket even tighter around her. "Shoot, boy. Ain't nothing no decent person shouldn'a done." She eyed him, then loosened her wrap. The shivering man leaned into her, and she covered them both.

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"Are you an idiot?"

Roger sure felt like one. Collins was giving him that look reserved for his students that not only had no clue what the assignment was, but what class they were in.

"Don't blame me! Why didn't you notice it? You were there in the loft, too!"

"I'm not his keeper!"

"What the hell? You think I am?"

"Yes!" Collins pulled his shoulders back, breathing heavily. His pad was dimly lit. Books bought in junk stores lined the walls and sat open on small tables.

"Oh, that's ripe, coming from someone who left."

"I had a better reason than you! I had a job. You know the meaning of the word job?" Roger turned away angrily as Collins laid into him. "You know the meaning of 'get off your ass and do something' rather than laying about pissed cause you got the 80's clap? Lemme tell you what, boy. You better start owning up, taking some responsibility. And paying attention to what's going on around you is a good place to start! First you were caught up in your music. Then April. Then in mourning April. Then Mimi. Are you capable of caring for just one thing at a time?"

"I am _sick_ of you lecturing me!" Roger spun round, his finger jabbing toward Collins' face. "You breeze back in town like we owe you for going out and making something of yourself! Well, guess what? You went out, and you came back, and you're living in a shit hole alone! I've got my guitar, Mark's got his camera, you got your books! So who's different, huh? You're no better off than you were a year ago! You're a loser like the rest of us, so shut the fuck up!"

He didn't see the punch coming. Roger just knew he was on the floor, dazed.

Collins rested his hands on his hips, head lowered. He turned away to collect himself. When he turned back, his posture was slumped. "Shit, man. Come on." A hand reached down and hauled Roger to his feet. Then, for no visible reason, he flinched.

Roger rubbed his jaw. "What'd you do that for?"

"What?"

"Curl yourself up like that."

"Oh. In movies when this shit happens, the guy that gets up punches the guy that put him down there."

Roger continued to rub. "Yeah?"

"I was waiting for it."

"Oh." Roger nodded. The room spun and Collins found himself on the floor, rubbing his own jaw.

Roger stood over him. "Even?"

"I suppose." He reached up, and Roger pulled him to his feet. "You have issues, you know that?"

"Like you don't?"

Collins said nothing for a moment. He studied his friend and former roommate. "You know, I think we both need to start going back to those Life Support meetings."

"Haven't been since Angel . . ." Roger winced at the pain in Collins' eyes. What the hell was he doing . . ."Look, I'm really sorry about what I said, man, about you being alone. You know I don't mean that."

Collins gave a single nod. "Really need to get back to those meetings."

"Let's find Mark first."

"Starting where? You realize what time it is?" Collins rubbed his jaw again. He couldn't help but smile, and chuckle. "You still throw a mean punch."

"That's nothing. Some guy tried to steal Mark's camera once, right when he was filming. Tried to take it right out of his hands."

"You punched him?"

"No. He did. Laid him out cold, and was completely horrified for two days after."

Collins laughed. "Told you he was resourceful."

"Guess a guy like that wouldn't survive here if he wasn't."

"He's got balls." Collins' laugh faded into a sigh. "We should put one of the girls in the loft in case he shows up."

"I'll ask Mimi. I'm sure Maureen would jump at the chance, but we'd never be able to start a search for her histrionics."

Collins backed up. "A new word for you! I'm impressed!"

"Yeah, I'm real 'eddicated'. Let's go."

Collins grabbed his shoulder. "Wait. You really meant all that you said, didn't you?"

Roger stopped. "Did you?"

Collins met his glance. "Let's just go."

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Mark was staring at his bowl. He had woken again after another dream, and almost instantly found a soup bowl in his hands. "Hunger pains," Ms. Willie said as she tucked in, trying not to smile at his expression. It wouldn't do for her to smile after the hell she was putting him through. "You missed dinner."

"You seriously eat this stuff?" Mark padded a bit of undefinable meat with the bowl of his spoon. It bobbed in the brown liquid.

"Best the soup kitchen's got. You better eat it. Jonah waited a whole ten minutes for it."

"Who's Jonah?"

Ms. Willie pointed to a man with long hair wearing a blue tie-dyed sweatshirt, bent over a large pot. "Over there. Reheated this just for you."

Mark squinted. He could just make out the figure deck in a blue shirt filled with swirls, like clouds before a storm. "Think I've seen him before. He always wears tie-dye?"

"Yep."

Mark nodded. "Funny, I've seen him around but never knew his name. He's Jewish, wears a large Star of David."

"If you seen him around, you must live in the area. You Jewish?"

Mark raised his eyebrows.

She jabbed at the meat in her bowl with a stained plastic spoon. "Well, I ain't no judge of people. Don't know why we gotta go separating them out anyway. If two of each kind of animal made it onto Noah's ark, there's sure room for all of us here."

Mark shifted so that he could look at Ms. Willie. Really look at her, as much as he could see. "You used to be a schoolteacher, didn't you?"

She stared at him, her eyes as dark as her skin. "Why on earth would you think that?"

"I don't know. You just sound like one."

"Don't know what school teaching has to do with having faith, but if you says so."

"Doesn't seem like that faith has served you well."

She flashed him a severe look. "I'm alive, ain't I?"

"If you can call this living." Silence followed, and he looked up into steely eyes. At least, that was his perception. He sighed. "That was rude. I apologize."

His sincerity placated her a bit. "Nice to see you have the decency to say so. I appreciate that."

Mark nodded and returned his attention to his bowl. There was no way any decent person could eat the glop he was spooning. Apparently whoever made the soup didn't think there were any decent people on the streets, no one worth the effort of actually making sure the meat was done. He stabbed at a soggy carrot with the tip of the bowl of the spoon. "Wish I knew what time it is."

"Hm." Ms. Willie raised her chin. "Hey, Jonah! What time is it?"

"Why, you got a date?" The voice was thinner than Mark would have pictured.

"You cockeyed, hippy haired, drugged out piece of . . ."

"It's ten after ten. That would be ten ten. Ten minutes following the tenth hour of the day."

"Thank you." She lowered her head. "Asshole. Brings soup, though."

Mark couldn't help but to chuckle, even though he still felt like crap. "Nice family you've got here." His gaze wandered with a practiced eye, cataloging the things he saw. An old man sat on top of a blanket, faintly lit in the firelight. He rocked back and forth, and Mark could just hear a hum, though he couldn't make out a song. "Who's he?"

"Art."

"Short for Arthur?"

"Naw. He draws all the time. Sketches underneath the bridges all over the city. Disappears for weeks at a time, then always ends up here for about three days. Don't know his name, we just call him Art."

"Fascinating." Mark looked around, and pointed. "What about that one over there?" The person was so bundled up he couldn't tell if it was a male or female.

"Imogene. Sixteen years old. Drugs got her, can't talk to her. She's lost her mind."

"Really?" Mark pushed as though he was about to stand, but Ms. Willie pulled him back down.

"I mean it! You leave her alone. She's too far gone. Nearly killed a man. Don't go playing angel or anything. You leave her be."

Mark nodded and sat back down. Her sentence rang in his ear, _Don't go playing angel _. . . "Have we met before? I mean, other than what you mentioned."

"Haven't had the pleasure." He wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic.

At this point it wouldn't matter. The streets should be familiar to him, and that was all he had. They should be familiar. He exhaled loudly, setting his bowl down, suddenly feeling restless.

She noticed. "It's the soup. It'll turn you inside out until you get used to it."

"Great. Thanks. Guess if I'm filming about the homeless, I should check out the soup kitchens and see who makes this crap, and find out why they are able to legally torture people."

Ms. Willie laughed. It was a dry, forced sound, as though she had nearly forgotten how. "I likes you. Dunno why. But I do."

He managed a smile. "Well, I like you too, Ms. Willie."

"You're a nice Jewish boy. Most Jewish boys are nice. You good to your folks? Most nice Jewish boys are good to their folks."

Mark tensed up. The words on the tip of his tongue were, "No. Not really," but he couldn't utter them. Maybe it was from his uncertainty; the image that flooded his mind was unfamiliar to him. But mainly he didn't want to disappoint this lady. "I don't know."

She patted his knee. "No, I s'pose not. Stupid question."

"It's okay."

"You get some sleep, now. I'll be here, ain't going nowhere. Just you make sure you wake up in the mornin', you hear? Nasty bump on the head and all that."

"Riiight." Mark shot her a sideways glance as he pushed forward on his rear, and laid back. "Don't suppose you've got an extra blanket?" She glared at him. "Right. Good night."

He settled down to sleep, and was covered an hour later by a confiscated blanket. "Good night, boy."


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for sticking with this! I had a few other stories to knock out, and as much as I tried to avoid RL, it found me. Rest assured, I don't leave fics behind, so I suggest putting this on your alert list for updates. As always, reviews are welcome, and thanks to those that have reviewed so far! -Kam

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The streets were still busy, filled with people who found the nightlife easier to cope with than the trials of the day. It was easier to hide at night, easier to melt into a life style that was individual, to disguise oneself in flashy clothes and not give a damn. A couple shouldered past Roger and Collins, tripping back drunkenly to their home, or maybe to another bar. Young men leaned against storefronts, smoking. A bag lady could be seen turning the corner. "Hey, maybe we should get back, you know?" Collins pulled Roger to a stop and wrapped his arm around the shivering man.

But Roger shook his head stubbornly, shrugging off the embrace. "Forget it. He's still out here. He has to be, he's not at the loft."

"Mimi needs to go back to her own room, and you need to get inside," Collins said sternly.

"You make her sound like a child. And you're treating me like one."

"Roger, it's nearly two am!"

"Damn it, Collins, I know what time it is!"

Collins exhaled sharply in irritation, and turned Roger to face him. "Look. He may be inside in a nice warm room, maybe a nice girl picked him up or something. And while he's in that nice warm room, we're out here freezing our asses off for nothing."

"Yeah, and I suppose he just accidentally stepped on his glasses on the way out?"

"It happens."

"And left his camera?"

"He's not a voyeur! Maybe he didn't want to film that bit!"

"He hasn't called!"

"Maybe he's getting lucky! Seriously man, if you got lucky would you call Mark to let him know it?"

"Collins." Roger jerked away from him. "Shut. UP." He instantly wrapped his arms around himself, shivering.

Collins sighed. He knew good and well this wasn't like Mark, and Roger knew he knew it. But he'd be damned if he was going to play into his own frustration. Roger was frustrated enough for both of them. He eyed the skies above. "Wouldn't be surprised if snow was on the way. Now let's get home. We'll get a few hours sleep and start again when it's daylight." He reached out as Roger shook his head and started to walk off. "If he does needs us," Collins called out, "we need to be coherent. And not sick. You understand me?"

The words stopped Roger. "You're worried too."

"Of course I'm worried. But there's no point in killing the eggs before they make chickens."

Roger winced at him. "That's scrambled."

"Exactly." He started down the street. "You coming or not?"

Roger knew he was right. His toes were beyond numb, his back muscles cramped from shivering for so long. With a heavy sigh he followed. The night was freezing, the air crisp and fairly clean for New York. The lights shone against the crispness like pins. Yet Roger kept his head down, concentrating only on the patterns in the cracked concrete below his feet. "You make me sick sometimes."

"Why?"

"Always thinking you know it all."

Collins walked beside him, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. "I do know this. You and Mark have the same baggage. You're both afraid of losing someone."

"Who?"

Collins looked at him pointedly. "You. And it makes you both crabby as hell."

Roger just looked back, unable to say anything for a minute. He swallowed a small laugh. "When I die, I'll lose him too. It isn't just me. God, this is morbid, why are we talking about this?"

"Because I've been there, remember? And it's eating you alive, that Mimi is dying. And lately you've been taking it out on Mark."

"What?"

"Shit, man, why do you think he wanted you gone last night? You do nothing but sit around and look like the world is falling apart around you, and when someone tries to help you shove them away. Thought you learned all that, you know, that stuff that Mimi says, about not wasting any time. It takes it's toll on people, especially when they're being affected too."

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" His voice cracked. It wasn't a question about his current situation. It was a question directed at life itself.

Collins slowly put his arm over Roger's shoulder. "You'll have to let her go. Just don't do it right now."

"I've already done that once. April. Remember?"

"And you'll have to do it again. And again. And again for the rest of your days. How many people have we lost in the Life Support group? People die. It's a sucky fact of life, Roger. Get used to it."

The statement wasn't said with spite, but with pure understanding. Roger realized his eyes were tearing, and wiped them. "See? You make me sick."

"You already are. Guess I need to stop reminding you by bugging you to go indoors when the weather's this cold, and you don't have your scarf!" Collins made the sudden realization and hit Roger over the head.

"Hey! Mark does that enough."

"He's caring for you."

"I know," Roger whispered, and turned a look of anguish to his friend.

"It's hard, man. I know. But you ain't in this alone."

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Mimi came to the loft door quickly as Roger opened it. "Oh," she said. "I thought it was Mark."

"Guess that means he hasn't shown up since we last checked in." Roger pushed in, his gaze surveying the room before meeting hers.

"No." Her eyes were too large in her small face. She looked so frail, so tired.

Roger pulled her close to him in a hug, and closed his eyes. He could feel her tremble, feel even the hard dancer muscle wasting away. _No_, he thought viciously. "How do you feel?"

"Better, actually." She smiled, and it was still dazzling. "I'm sure you can't tell it, but I feel pretty good." _They say I've got the best ass_ . . .

"You need to get some sleep."

"I can't sleep. Let me stay here, please? I can't . . .I don't want to go back to my place. Not yet."

Roger wasn't sure if it was fear for Mark or fear for herself that made her insist on staying. He wasn't about to turn her away. "Take my bed."

She nodded. It wasn't like they hadn't shared a bed before, but it was obvious that Roger wouldn't sleep until his roommate showed up. And it was obvious that if he did, there would be a very long talk, and it was also obvious that Roger wasn't holding out much hope for either event. She looked at Collins, who made himself a fixture on the couch. Staying, then. Good. She gave Roger a kiss and retired to his room.

Roger rubbed his face in aggravation as he walked to the kitchen. He flipped open the lid to the coffee can and studied the contents. "Collins?"

"Sure. I'd ask for something stronger, but suppose we should stay alert. That, and I know you don't have any and I left mine at home."

Roger agreed and started a pot to brew. His eyes wandered again to the bicycle, the camera bag. His thoughts drifted to the glasses. He sat down hard at the metal table, and let his emotion consume him. Quietly, of course. It was just too much for right now; Angel's death, Roger's own abandonment of his friends then coming back to find Mimi so ill, and now his roommate, his friend, hell his _brother_, was missing? It was obscene. He folded his arms on the table and let his head fall forward in exhaustion. After several minutes he heard Collins cross the floor. There was a clink of ceramic, a pour, and warmth as Collins stood behind him. He set the mug on the table, and Roger raised his head and eyed it. "You should get some sleep too," Collins said. "I'll stay up a bit. I'm a night owl anyway."

"Almost a morning owl," Roger yawned. "Not sure I have enough left for several pots of this stuff."

"You won't need it." And it was true. Roger drank his share, and curled up on the sofa. Caffeine held no weight in comparison to exhausted anxiety, and he fell into a fitful sleep.

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The morning dawned angrily over Mark. He winced and blinked a few times before committing to actually keeping his eyes open. He didn't move. Around him were the sounds of shuffling, murmured speech, nothing really coherent or meaningful. In the distance, car horns stabbed through the cold air, adding to his confusion. He reached instinctively for his glasses, and found nothing. Glasses? Wait, what the . . .

He remembered.

Well, some. More, at least. He wore glasses. He remembered worrying about a filming project, he couldn't get the cut he wanted. He remembered angling a film negative in the dim light. He remembered someone teasing him, then becoming aggravated, then being alone.

Mark rose slowly, wincing harshly, feeling the ache in every part of his body. It wasn't a fiery pain, but it was enough to make him move cautiously. His head pounded, but was bearable. He carefully pulled his legs to him as he sat up, crossing them yoga-style in a way that only such a thin body could manage. He was freezing, and leaned over his crossed legs, hugging himself, shielding himself from the biting wind. He squinted at the events around him, able to make out the people moving, seeing just enough detail to not panic. This wasn't the same kind of blurry, not a knock-on-the-head blurry. This was his usual blurry, something he could work with.

Ms. Willie waddled toward him, carrying a small Styrofoam cup in a gloved hand. "Want some coffee?"

"Thank you." He accepted the cup graciously. The first sip burned his tongue, and he cursed.

"You okay?"

"I was!" Mark yelped, jerking back from the cup and pouring a little into his lap. He sprang up.

The lady chuckled. "Need to be careful. Be glad it's warm, lotsa times we just have cold cause no one wants to hold it over the heat."

"What do you mean?" Mark half asked, brushing at his pants as though his hand was an absorbent towel.

"I mean it cramps and burns your arm." He nodded towards the fire. "All we got is a metal pot with a metal handle. Stays warm for a while, though. Jonah held it this time, wrapped his hand up good, said you'd be needing it. Guess he was right, but I didn't think you'd wear it."

Mark snorted. "No, this is my usual clumsy self, I'm pretty sure."

Her dark eyes sparked. "You remember something?"

Mark saw the interest in her face, and sighed. Now that he was awake, he wasn't even sure it could be called a memory so much as a half-hope. "Maybe. Snatches, images. Nothing helpful. I wear glasses."

She laughed. "That's what you remember? Boy, you must be unusually attached to those glasses. I'd of thought you'd remember your girlfriend or something. You got a girlfriend?"

"I wouldn't know."

She leaned in. "You gay? Cause it's okay if you are, "she pointed to Art, "we're pretty sure he is."

"What? No!" Was he? "No, I mean, I do know that." He barked a laugh and settled back down with his cup, hiding sudden anxiety in his brew, because to be truthful, he couldn't remember that either and the realization was unsettling.

She shrugged. "To each his own, I say. But if you ain't got nobody, then you're in trouble. I just as soon be unlawful as be alone."

Mark looked up. "You think it's unlawful? I thought you just said . . ."

"Not me personally. I couldn't care less. Just as long as you're with someone. Worst thing in the world is to die alone." She pointed. "See Jonah over there? His friend died alone. Park bench. Pigeons weren't even there. He was just covered in newspaper for a while, then they blew away. People thought he was passed out drunk. Wasn't until he began to bloat and smell that someone bothered to check on him."

Mark grimaced. "Tell me that's not a true story."

"As true as those films you make."

He blinked in astonishment. "I remember those. I mean, I was working on something." He frowned as he gazed off into the distance.

Ms. Willie patted him on the leg. "Well, I think it's about time for breakfast. You comin'?"

"Soup kitchen?" Mark asked hesitantly, eyeing the clouds above. They were a deep purple against a rapidly lightening sky, providing a rather bruised effect. Fitting.

"Buffet." She smiled, and Mark noticed her teeth didn't look all that bad. Not like he would have thought.

They left the small community and started along the streets of New York. Ms. Willie was chatty, talking about her daughter and how she always wanted grandkids but never had the chance. "I miss taking care of someone," she said. "Guess that's why I still got you. Truth be told, I'm not sure what I'll do when you go. It's nice to have someone to talk to who listens for a change."

"I like listening to you," Mark said honestly. He was making a mental catalog of things she said, filing it away for some reason in the back corner of his mind.

"Well, I ain't all that, but I do gots a story. Everyone gots a story if you listen. Now that day you stuck that camera in my face, I'll never forget that. That ain't the story." She stopped him and tapped his head hard. "It ain't here." She jabbed a thick finger into his chest, ignoring his grunt. "It's here. Don't get the two mixed up."

He rubbed his chest, nearly glaring at her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. She turned and led him down a street bustling with restaurants, and he felt his mouth water. But she didn't go in. She turned down a back alley, and headed for the dumpster.

"Wait," Mark said suddenly, grabbing her arm. "What are you doing?"

"Getting breakfast! And I just called you a listener. Huh." She pulled away and flung open the side door with a grating creak. "This place throws out bagels at the end of the day. Sometimes they're in bags. Ain't messy, just a waste." She dug around, and came up triumphant. "Stupid health laws. Can't sell bagels more than a day old, but they can throw them in a dumpster for some old homeless lady to find." Her hands worried at the bag, and she finally ripped it open. She handed it to Mark before pulling out a bagel for herself, and tucked the bag into her long coat. Then she went diving again.

Mark sniffed at the bread, ignoring the flip his stomach made. The bread was fairly soft, the bag had never been opened. She was right. He didn't understand, but at the moment he wasn't debating the issue. "Sounds like their stupidity is your gain. This behind that coffee shop?"

"Yep. They don't do this every day, I think they bend their own rules a little. But once a week they're throwing out, and I get them and take them back to the 'hood."

"Hood." Mark smiled. "Didn't think you'd call it that."

"Marcus' fault. He died too."

"Mark."

"What?"

Mark stared at her, his mouth full. His eyes were wide. "That's my name."

"Mark? Well, well." She straightened and smiled, and held out a hand. "Nice to finally meet you, Mark."

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Roger walked the streets, his hands tucked into his pockets, his breath on the morning air. He hadn't eaten. He couldn't. His path crisscrossed the streets and alleys, looking for a body he was scared to find. Hell, he wasn't even sure what Mark was wearing, which wasn't too helpful in the missing persons report he tried to file. Best he could do was to roam the streets and hope that someone had seen him. Collins had tried to tease him, "I was missing for fourteen hours once. Didn't come looking for me," but he was off pounding the pavement as well.

Maureen was in her usual element, he was certain of it if his last brief sight of her was any judge, clutching Joanne's arm frantically and pulling her away from the loft and down the street on a desperate search for "pooky", a term that made Joanne roll her eyes as she tried to keep up. Collins had crossed the road in front of the loft, Roger himself was headed uptown. Sort of. His pattern wavered, and he realized there was no rhyme nor reason to his steps other than pressing forward. Mimi was again stationed at the loft, stronger for sleep. Her color was better, and her spirits were as high as could be expected in a situation such as this.

He stopped people on the streets, asking if they had seen a young man, blond hair, thin. Out of habit he would describe Mark with his glasses, then have to backpedal. Not knowing what he was wearing didn't help. Not having his bike or a camera bag didn't help. Mark realize that, other than describing him as blond and thin, with blue eyes, there was absolutely nothing to go on, and these scant facts were more likely to get him stared at than recruit help. It was no use. Without his usual trademarks, his friend was as nondescript as a paper bag.

He went to the Ryder Community Center, walked right into the dawn Life Support meeting (why anyone wanted to meet that early in the day to discuss death was beyond him), asked if anyone there had seen Mark, yes, the guy with the (freakin') camera, and walked out again.

Paper bag, paper bag, paper bag . . .


	4. Chapter 4

It was late morning. Mark found himself listening quite happily to Ms. Willie's chatter, and she was very willing to talk. They laughed at jokes, discussed what was wrong with the world, eyed with disdain the people carrying designer handbags that knocked into others as they walked with no apology. A park bench sat empty for them, and they took advantage. Pigeons flocked to them, fat yet sickly looking birds, desperate for a bite to eat in the cold weather. Ms. Willie obediently pulled out her bag of bagels. "I share one with them. They expect me, you know. One day I won't come, and they'll be pecking out people's eyes."

"I hope not," Mark chuckled, taking the half bagel that was offered to him while trying to hide his chill. A pigeon walked right up to his feet and cocked its head, staring at him with one red eye that he could barely see. A moment later they were flocked.

Mark cringed and ducked as a bird tried to land on his head. "You do this every day?"

"If I have the food and ain't too hungry. Sure. Their other choice is the soup kitchens, and I wouldn't wish that on the devil."

"So I guess you think that highly of me, huh?" He crumbled his bread and tossed it onto the pavement. Sharp beaks stabbed rapidly at the feast.

"What? You think you the devil? Or is it because I gave you soup?"

"I have no idea if I am the devil, and yes, you gave me soup."

"At least I warned you before you ate it. And it was a gift from Jonah. Awful to turn away a gift, cause you might not get another."

Mark tossed more bread. "Thought they ate worms!"

"Huh. You ever try pecking through this concrete for worms? Uh-uh. These here are distinguished birds. They likes what they like."

"They sure aren't vocal about it. Other birds peck and screech."

"I said these here are distinguished. They know what they're about. They don't have to screech to be heard. People know they're there."

"Unlike you." Mark looked at her.

She shrugged. "Done tried screeching, screaming, the whole lot. Done me no good, so I figured there ain't no use in causing such a ruckus in the first place." She bent down and offered a bit to a particularly large pigeon. It took the bread quickly.

Mark continued to shred his bagel into shavings. "I suppose I should walk around and see if anything jolts my memory."

"You think you can get around like this?"

He shrugged. "I can see well enough."

She huffed and scooted back onto the bench. "If you say so."

"Should I walk you back?"

"Such a gentleman." She poked him. "You think I'll get lost? You go on and do your thing. You know how to get back if you need to?"

He squinted at his surroundings. "I think so. Yes."

"I'll be there. Come back either way, tell me more about yourself, or stay another night. Whichever one happens to you."

"I'll do that." He clapped his hands together and brushed the crumbs away, and turned to her. Then he startled her by leaning over and giving her a quick hug and a peck on her rough cheek. "Thanks." Suddenly feeling embarrassed, he stood quickly and hurried off.

"I'll be damned," she muttered, shaking her head at the pigeons. "Gentleman indeed. That's what I'm talking 'bout."

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Mark walked through the crowded streets, knowing the sights like one who came across them in a book somewhere. Familiar, yet not quite tangible. The vibrant signs advertising the museum triggered something, not solid, more the flavor of a thought. He saw a man sitting on the sidewalk playing a guitar, and smiled.

His walk took him past the park, past restaurants and buildings, towers and tents. Somehow the place suddenly darkened, forcing him to look up at the sky for overcast. The sun shone above him through the breaking clouds, yet he felt a sense of gloom.

The buildings he passed were no longer grey, but brown, the glass was covered in eternal grime. The alleys were cobbled and seemed almost slimy, whether it was the light or the surroundings, he wasn't certain. But he knew he didn't like the place, and the thought was confirmed as sensed rather than saw five men at the end of the street turn to him. He froze, had no idea why, and when they started toward him every instinct told him to run. When they started yelling at him, coming at him full speed, he did.

It didn't help his aching head in the slightest, but he didn't care. His feet pounded the pavement, his arms pumped like pistons. He turned corners, dodged some people, ran into others, and still the gang chased him. They knew him. How the hell did they know him? _I must've really fucked something up_, he thought desperately as he ran smack into a lady, apologizing as he bolted away. There was no doubt in his mind that they were responsible for his current condition, that they were the people in a snippet of memory, pulling him out of that big room. Fear flooded his chest as his stamina wavered, and he forced himself onwards, hearing them close in, hearing them swear and laugh and threaten. He darted around a corner and ran right over a man, landing hard on his side on the pavement.

The impact knocked the wind from him, and judging by the crumpled figure that slowly rolled to glare at him, his victim was breathless as well. Mark spared no time, he was on his feet, reaching to pull the other man up, and felt a tight grip secure itself on his wrist. Mark tried to jerk away, knowing he'd been caught, but the man was looking at him, stunned, relieved. "Mark? Jesus! Mark!" The man's other hand closed on him, and he pushed it away, tearing himself from this unknown person and backing away, breathing rapidly.

"Wait! What the . . .what the hell happened to you? What happened to your head?" The other man was walking toward him eagerly. In the back of his mind, he knew this person, but that was all he had. A yell behind him prompted Mark to run, and he did, pushing past his friend without knowing it was him. He heard his name again, knew he was being chased by yet one more person, and it was enough to send his panic into overdrive. He ran into a store, trying not to knock over the delicate product and failing miserably. He exited out the back and climbed into the dumpster. He stayed there for some time, gasping with his hand over his mouth, ignoring the rancid smell. Feet pounded past, yells disappeared in confusion. He thought someone paused, and muttered, "Damn it!" and the voice was familiar, as much as it could be though metal and a semi-closed lid. He stayed put for a good half-hour, then climbed out, falling to the hard ground, and limped back to Ms. Willie.

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"That does it. I ain't letting you out my sight no more."

"Ms. Willie . . ."

"I mean it! You go out there and try to get yourself killed. Ain't none of my business, though. Why keep you safe?" She leaned in. "Cause I likes you, that's why. I've said it once, I'll say it again. You make me feel better." It was pretty obvious that, at the moment, she didn't feel better. She seemed pissed.

Mark lowered the cloth that covered his forehead. Ms. Willie slapped it back up there. "Those guys. They're why I can't remember anything, I know it."

"Probably what gave you that head injury in the first place, and then you had to go and bump it again. Never mind. You just stay away from that side 'a town and you'll be just fine."

"I can't. I'm pretty sure I live over there, somewhere."

"You?" She laughed. "Boy like you should be in school, or living uptown. You're not with your parents though, right? You live alone."

"Not alone." He remembered many a day waking groggy-eyed to the heavenly smell of coffee. No, not alone.

"Keep that cloth on your head."

He squinted up at her. "Have you ever tried getting a job?"

Her glare was threatening. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What I said. You're good with people, you're not out of your mind, and you're smart." He gestured. "You shouldn't be living like this."

"Shoot. From your mouth to God's ears." She shook her head and stirred a pot.

He leaned forward, the cloth dropping from his head. "What's that?"

She looked at him evenly. "Cleaning my socks."

"Oh." He leaned back, noticing for the first time the wet clothing lying on the ground to dry.

Ms. Willie continued to stir. "This guy that knew you. Called you by name. You remember his?"

"No."

"But he was worried 'bout you, right?"

"He seemed surprised to see me. I don't think he wanted me to leave."

"Mm-hm. You think about that for a minute."

"Why?"

"Boy, why you ask so many questions?"

Mark sighed impatiently. He made it a point to lean back slowly and close his eyes, making sure that she took note of the exaggerated effort.

"Don't be an ass about it," she muttered, "just trying to help and all that. Now picture him."

"Not sure I got a good look at him."

"Do it anyway."

Mark did. Long-ish, wavy hair, eyes that looked pained. He remembered the grip as being a strong one. Light green button down shirt. Jeans. Worn Doc Marten boots. A voice that was more gentle than the look, but held an edge. Anger? Desperation? Black leather jacket. For a moment he'd been certain he'd messed up and ran right into the arms of a gang member. But this wasn't a gang member. Not with that voice. Concern. Fear. The way he had to force himself out of that grip. The area . . . "He was already out there. Maybe he lives out there."

"Mm-hm."

"I mean, he's . . . I know him. He knew me." Mark screwed his eyes tight shut in frustration. "Dammit, it's right there! Like I could snatch the memory from the air."

"A friend of yours," Ms. Willie prompted.

"Yes." Mark's eyes widened. "Yes! I have to go back there."

She set her spoon down. "Are you crazy?"

"I know him. I know I do." Mark stood suddenly, clarity changing his features. "The loft! We live in a loft together, he's – he's my room mate." Clear eyes turned to hers. "I can't remember his name, but I know that. I remember him."

She stood slowly, her eyes never leaving his. Studying him. She came to a decision, and nodded slowly. "You go to him, then. You see him. You go get your life back."

He grabbed her hand. "Come with me. You don't deserve this, I'm sure I can . . ."

Ms. Willie laughed and looked around. "Who's to say what a person deserves? And who'd take care of these fools?" She patted his arm. "You just come visit, you hear? And bring me a warm bagel."

Mark opened his mouth, and couldn't say anything. He started to give her a hug, but she pushed him away. "Go on," she said sternly, "before someone else sees your helpless self and bops you on the head. 'Cause I may not be so nice the next time."

"Thank you," he said, taking small steps backwards. He gave a small wave, and left.

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"He ran! He fucking ran from me, and I lost him!" Roger flipped over a small table in his rage. Papers flew into the air. A ceramic mug busted on the wooden floor.

"Baby!" Mimi was trying to console him, had been since he stormed into the loft on the edge. Her hands hovered over him, but not touching him. "Honey, he's alive. That's good!"

"He didn't know me! He was hurt, his head was . . ."

"Roger, please, sit down."

"No. I have to get back out there."

"You can't. Not like this."

"He ran from me! He didn't know who I was!" The confusion and pain in his voice was hard to Mimi to listen to, and she finally grabbed him, pulled him to her.

"I know, I know." She ran a soothing hand through his hair.

He pushed it away, then realized what he had done. "Mimi. God, I'm sorry."

But she shook her head quickly and pulled him close again, then onto the sofa, feeling his shaky hands run through her hair before they kissed. He pulled back with a distressed sigh and lowered his head.

A knock on the door preceded Collins' walking in, his usual newspaper tucked underneath his arm. "Hey!" His dark eyes surveyed the loft. "Where is he?"

"Thought I told you when I called. I saw him, couldn't catch him," Roger said angrily.

"Damn. Guess I was just hoping he'd be here." Collins crossed the room and set down a paper bag he had been carrying in his hand. He made himself comfortable in the dilapidated chair beside the worn sofa.

"Like he'd want to come back here."

"Hey, we're all he's got." Collins flung out his arms and gestured to the loft. "This is home in all it's primed glory. Who wouldn't want it?"

Roger snorted. "You didn't."

"True." He started to empty the contents of his bag. "But I had a job offer across country. And I'm not Mark. And," he emphasized, "when things got bad, where did I run to?"

"Here."

"Damn straight."

"Where the hell is he?" Roger stood, his touch lingering on Mimi until he walked away. "Crap. I'm obsessing. I gotta stop this."

"No, you're just being a good friend and room mate." Collins cocked a dark brow at him. "Albeit an annoying one."

"One thing's for sure. He didn't leave on his own free will."

"Unless he did, and was mugged."

"Or was dragged out of here and knocked unconscious."

Collins gave Roger a wry smile as he sat back with a drink. "Daaaamn, whatcha been reading, boy? I might like that book."

"Screw you. And I can't believe you're drinking already." Roger turned a full circle before realizing that he had nothing to do, he was just imitating the distortion in his mind.

"Nothing worse than waiting," Collins said. "Besides, it's after seven. How long did you look for him?"

"Is it?" He checked his watch. "Shit. I don't know, I looked until dark. He's just gone."

Collins sighed and eyed the blinking city lights through the large windows. "Can't really call him a missing person if you've seen him."

"No."

"Gonna be another cold night."

"You know, you're not really helping much!" Roger grimaced at another knock on the door. "Now what?" He crossed the floor and flung it open in irritation, expecting Maureen to come bounding in and set his raw nerves aflame. Instead, he stared in disbelief.

"Roger? It's Roger, right?" Mark squinted at him. He was shivering, pale, and was quickly caught as he collapsed.

"Mark! . . .Collins get over here!" Roger couldn't say anything else, he just held his friend. There was a muttered curse and Collins appeared suddenly, draping Mark's right arm over his shoulder. The two of them half-carried, half-dragged Mark to the couch, where an equally startled Mimi was piling up any pillows she could find.

"Get some coffee on," Roger ordered Mimi as they lay their friend down, and she nodded. Collins ran into the bedrooms for blankets as Roger sat beside Mark and alternately patted his friend's cheeks, rubbed his arms. "Mark. Come on, wake up, you're here. It's Roger, and- and Collins, and Mimi's over there brewing you a cup, so don't complain that it's too strong. Come on, open your eyes." He studied the heavy bruising and unhealed gash on Mark's forehead, and looked at Collins, who just shook his head in disgust as he started piling blankets on the freezing man.

It took some time, but pale blue eyes opened. Roger's forehead creased as he studied the uncertain expression. "Hey. You know where you are?"

"Home." His voice was soft, and the worry eased. He met Roger's eyes. "I made it."

Roger forced out a laugh, and the tightness in his gut eased slightly. "Made it? You scared the shit out of us! What the hell happened to you?" He was trying not to sound angry, but damn it, he was. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and shrugged it off.

Mark just exhaled heavily. "I - don't know," he slurred, and winced. "Took long enough to remember this place and get back here."

Remember? Amnesia? His head. . .Shit. "You remember seeing me in the alley?"

"Yeah." A hand rose to his forehead, and Roger pushed it back down. Collins went to look for a first aid kit. "Ms. Willie said to think back." He smiled faintly. "She was pissed that I lost my bandage."

"Who the hell is Ms. Willie?"

The corner of Mark's mouth quirked. "Pet project. You'd like her. She's got an attitude like you."

"He's delirious," Collins muttered, returning with a small box.

"No," Mark insisted, "she's homeless. She found me after . . .after . . ." he winced, unable to remember.

Mimi returned from the kitchenette and cooed at him. She carefully shifted him until his head was in her lap, arranging the blankets around them, and dabbed at his head with a warm, wet cloth.

Roger watched her with him, and remembered the times she did the same for him, his head in her lap, her long fingers stroking his hair, talking softly to him. She really was caring beyond her years, and had a gift for soothing others. But she still looked tired. He didn't say anything, just let her tend to his friend. Mark seemed to be enjoying it, the ass. Roger smirked. Who wouldn't enjoy resting their head in the lap of a beautiful lady? "Mark," he muttered to his friend as he leaned over him, seeing pale eyes rise to meet his, "don't get any ideas about this. You get your own girl."

"Take away my moment of pleasure. Thanks," Mark said. His head bobbled slightly against Mimi's laugh.

"I'm about to," Collins said. "Let me clean that head of yours and put some goop on it." He held up a white tube.

"Great." Mark sat up slowly, reluctantly, and laid his head against the back of the sofa where Collins had better light.

Mimi checked on the coffee. Roger stood back, watching the scene, unable to believe Mark was back, just like that, unable to believe it was reaching the forty-eight hour point since his friend disappeared. It seemed like years. It seemed like it had never happened. "What do you remember?" he asked softly. He had to know. It was driving him crazy.

"Not now," Collins growled, but Mark raised his hand to quiet him as the pressure of the coarse rag cleaning his wound made him wince. "Not much," he replied a low voice. "I remember getting into an argument with someone."

Roger shifted his feet. "Yeah. That would be me."

Mark raised an eyebrow, and regretted it. "Okay. What were we fighting about?"

"Doesn't matter. Then what?"

"Then . . .there was a knock. I answered, and I was shoved into the room. They kept asking me something, and I was dragged back out." He seemed to be drifting. "I remember being in an alley, getting jumped, and something scaring them off. I –I remember Ms. Willie finding me. That lady needs a job, she's good." His eyes were closing, and he snapped them open again. "Wait. Where the hell were you? They pulled me out of here, I remember yelling and they covered my mouth. Where were you?" His senses poured back into him in a fit of anger. He pushed Collins away and stood shakily. "You went to Mimi's," he said, almost accusingly. "That's where you were. We were yelling, and-and you walked out! You went to Mimi's, and I didn't want to talk to you anymore. I thought that knock on the door was you, I remember wondering why you didn't just come in, then realized I had the key." He squinted his eyes and put a hand to his head, bending down in a remnant of pain. He straightened again. "I yelled out when they had me on the stairs! I was looking right at Mimi's door, why didn't you open the door?"

Roger was breathing heavily, feeling ashamed though he had nothing to be ashamed about. "We were. . .I mean when I went to Mimi's we. . ." he looked at Collins for help.

"I think maybe they were having sex," Collins supplied.

The rage slowly subsided. "Oh." Mark blinked. "_Oh_. Well. Guess you wouldn't hear me over that, then." Collins snorted, and Mimi stifled a laugh and turned away.

Even Roger had to grin. Mark stood there, feeling self-conscious, his eyes on the floor. He was surprised to find himself crushed into a huge bear hug from his best friend.

"I am so sorry," Roger said into his ear. "God, Mark. You've no idea."

Mark returned the hug, and sighed into his friend's shoulder. "Two against five. I dunno. Maybe we could have taken them."

Roger laughed and pulled away. "You better believe it."


	5. Chapter 5

"Pooky! Where is he? I want to see him, oooooh . . ." a burst of energy in the form of Maureen rushed into Mark's room that next morning and catapulted onto his mattress. Mark yelped out of his sleep and instantly pulled the thin sheet up around him.

"Maureen!"

"Pooky! Are you okay? Oh my god, look at your head! What did they do to you?" She touched the bandage, her enthusiasm causing her to move quickly.

He winced and jerked back at her rough handling. "They who?"

"You mean you did this yourself?"

"_No_ . . .I – I uh. . ." Mark gently pushed her hand away and looked at the door in desperation. Joanne was there, her arms crossed, trying to look stern. Roger was peering in over her shoulder, enjoying the display. Mark made eyes at him, wanting them out of his room so he could at least get some clothes on.

Maureen tugged at his sheet, causing Mark to yelp again and pull it up higher. "Cut it out!"

"But Pooky, I've seen it all bef . . ."

"Are we still dating?"

". . .no . . ."

"No. Then you don't need to see it again. And don't call me Pooky, that's her," he relinquished his hold on the sheet long enough to point, and rescued it from yet another tug. "Do you _mind_?"

"Not at all," Maureen replied slyly, just in time for Joanne to walk in. "Just that you always had a cute. . ."

"Maureen! Let the boy get dressed." Joanne shoved the taller woman toward the door. Joanne glanced over her shoulder. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Good. We'll be waiting out here." She cocked her head toward the den and guided Maureen out.

"Terrific." Mark lied through his smile. He tried not to glare at Roger, who was lingering in the doorway, amused. "What the hell was all that?"

"_That_ was concern." He walked in and closed the door behind him. "She was pissed that we didn't call her last night, and I suppose she's right. But could you have handled all that last night?"

"I'm not sure I can handle it now."

"Come on, man. Feel the love. Embrace the love."

"I did," Mark groused. "Hand me my pants and stuff, will you? No, over there." He pointed.

Roger grabbed the articles of clothing and tossed them onto the bed, noticing how the blankets had been kicked onto the floor. He picked them up, eyeing the thin sheet Mark had apparently used as a blanket. "It's freezing in here. You got a fever? You need to see a doc?"

"I said I'm fine." Mark struggled to change his underwear underneath the sheet.

Roger raised a brow at the sudden modesty. "What about your glasses?"

Mark grimaced. "That's another story."

"Thought so. Well, turns out you have a savior." Roger reached into his back pocket and tossed a wad of cash onto the mattress.

Mark stared. "What's this?"

"We do have friends that aren't as ass-in-the-grass as we are, remember? Joanne forked out."

Mark stood and winced, hesitating at pulling on his dark pants. "Are you serious? Joanne?"

"Why not Joanne?"

"Well, she's . . .I mean other than the fact that she's dating my ex. . .I don't know!" He eyed the money as he stood. "I'll thank her once I get out there." He noticed a different silence, and saw Roger staring at his pale, bare torso, covered with fading bruises. He quickly wrapped his arms around his chest, then snatched up a pullover to cover himself.

"Any idea why those guys were after you?" Roger asked in a low voice.

"That sounds so melodramatic."

"What would you call it?"

"Bad luck." Mark spun slowly, hunting for his shoes. Roger pointed them out beside the rack where he hung his clothes. Mark walked to the rack and snatched up a clean pair of socks and bent down for his black loafers, not wanting to look at Roger. But he hesitated as he felt the man appear at his shoulder before he could straighten, pinning him in place without touching him.

"They beat you," Roger said slowly, in a low voice. "They pulled you out of here, and beat you, and probably left you for dead. And I bet it was those same guys you were running from yesterday."

Mark straightened in exasperation, forcing Roger to back off. "Look, I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Roger just nodded. "Fine. Okay. But you're not going out alone for a while until we figure out what the hell's going on."

Mark sat heavily on his mattress and jerked on his socks. "What is this, house arrest?"

"Yes," Roger said sternly.

"You're insane." Mark slid on his shoes and pushed past him.

"You think going out there after what happened is sane?"

"You think hiding is?" Mark yelled. He heard someone clear their throat. Collins was in the doorway, listening.

"You better get out here," he said calmly.

"Why?"

"Just something you should read."

Mark glanced at Roger as he folded and shoved the cash into his pocket, and walked into the main room of the loft. There were newspapers flung out over the round table in front of the sofa. Maureen looked a bit ill. "Mark," she said, and he knew there was trouble to come if she called him by his name. He sat beside her, puzzled, and she held out a page with a column tucked into the side, the continuation of front page news. Mark squinted at it, shook his head, and passed it over to Roger. He cleared his throat.

"The increase of attacks in the area can not be explained by local authorities, though it is evident that they are linked to what has become an epidemic rivaling that of the Columbian drug trafficking problem currently facing Miami. The increase in drug usage throughout the city has made these sellers aware of the potential for millions to be made. Not only are innocent people being attacked for what little worth they have in order to purchase drugs for resale, but it is evident that there are gangs on the streets ready to get in on the action. 'Alphabet City is about to turn into a war zone,' Chief Lyon Arnold said in a press release, 'it is obvious that an already existing problem is about to explode, and the residents are the victims.'" Roger looked up, a touch of shame evident on his face, then continued.

"There have already been several attacks on innocent people. In many cases the victims were beaten and left for dead. Three have died. More attacks are expected as tensions run high." He set down the paper. "Still doesn't explain what they were doing in the loft."

"Thieves, I guess, looking for something to sell." Mark rubbed at his forehead before remembering his injury.

"Then why did they chase you later?"

"Maybe they thought I could identify them?"

"Makes sense to me," Collins said, slapping Mark lightly on the leg. "Look, I gotta run. Glad you're okay, man, I'll check in on you later."

"Thanks."

Maureen leaned over and pecked a kiss on his cheek as Joanne rose. "I gotta go too. Joanne's got a client, and I'm not about to let her go out there alone after reading this."

"Maureen, my client is on the other side of town!"

"But you have to walk out that door, now don't argue!" She pouted, and Joanne relented. Maureen waved, and hurried out with Joanne snatching up their coats, yelling for her to wait.

Mark chuckled. "They ever slow down?"

"Doubt it."

Mark grinned and sighed. It seemed surreal, the two of them suddenly having the place to themselves. "Where's Mimi?"

"Asleep back at her place. She was up most of the night."

He frowned slightly. "Is she okay?"

Roger shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "I think so. She's going back to the clinic today."

"You taking her? No, of course you are, stupid question." Mark glanced toward the kitchen.

"Actually, Benny's taking her. He's got the cash, remember?"

"You okay with that?"

"Do I have a choice?" Roger noticed his glance. "Want something to eat?"

"Yeah. But not cereal." Mark brightened, remembering the wad he sat upon. "Hey, I've got just enough money. Let's eat out."

Roger studied him, eying Collins' handiwork on the bandage. "You feel up to it? Maybe you should get checked out. . ."

"I'm fine. I just need aspirin."

"What about your glasses?"

Mark patted his back pocket. "Did you see the wad Joanne dumped on me? How expensive do you think glasses are?"

"Uh-huh. Why don't we take care of those first, then we'll eat."

"Now who's being a mother hen?"

"Enjoy it while it lasts." Roger walked into Mark's bedroom and grabbed his friend's jacket. He exited a bit sullenly, then tossed the jacket over.

Mark noticed, but didn't know how to reassure him. Instead, he walked to his bicycle and removed the camera bag from the handlebar. Roger's pained expression grew. Definitely would have to question Roger about that. He opened the door, checking to make certain he had a key on him, and they headed out to purchase glasses, and to eat.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He eyed the frames dubiously. "I don't know. They look . . .glitzy. Like Elton John."

Roger did a double-take. "They look like your old wire frames."

"I liked the black ones better. These are too shiny."

"These are on sale." Roger raised his eyebrow pointedly.

"You're right." Mark sighed and reached into his pocket for the cash. "I'll take these."

The man across the counter studied the prescription and nodded. "Standard. Pick up at four o'clock." He held out his hand. Mark removed the frames and placed them in the palm, along with the required cash.

They walked out into the crisp air, each pulling their jackets around them and tightening their scarves. Eating outdoors was out of the question. "You realize a four o'clock pickup is going to put us walking back at night," Roger said.

"Taxi."

"With what? You want to eat?"

"Point." Mark tucked his hands into his pockets. He was sore and really didn't want to walk any more than was necessary, but he wasn't about to tell Roger that. "I need a hot chocolate."

"Let's go there, then. Come on." Roger took him by the sleeve and led him to a small hole-in-the-wall bakery. Mark winced as he recognized the side alley.

They talked, but not about recent events. Both ate sandwiches and sipped hot chocolate while watching the people pass by outside. It would be a long walk back. Roger was leaning his head against the back of his chair, eyes closed, when Mark stood and ordered a fresh bagel. He tapped Roger on the shoulder. "Let's go. I want you to meet someone."

"Who?"

Mark grinned cheekily. "My girlfriend."

Roger jumped up. "No way. Are you serious, man? When did you get a girlfriend?" Mark just laughed, and Roger grilled him as he followed. They turned down several streets and walked underneath several overpasses. A small community presented itself, and once there, he suddenly checked up.

"Come on!" Mark waved him along, hurrying through the people laying around until he reached a dark bundle. He bent down carefully, and pulled at the scarf hiding the face.

"What the. . .oh!" Ms. Willie looked startled. "You came back! Why?"

"Because I promised you something." Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out the now-crumpled bag.

She could smell it before he had it opened. "Lord bless you. You did do it, didn't you? You know how long it's been since I've had a hot bagel?" She held it in trembling hands. "Don't want to eat it, now. I want it to just warm me up."

"Warm you up faster if you eat it," Mark smiled.

"I suppose." Her eyes fell on Roger. "This your friend?"

"This is Roger, my room mate. Apparently he spent the whole night looking for me."

"The one you ran into?"

"The same." The smile was a proud one.

Ms. Willie wiped her hand and held it out. "I'm pleased to meet you. You sure you was looking for him?"

"He ran into me, Ms. Willie," Mark reminded her.

"Don't mean nothing. But you got good eyes on you." She studied Roger carefully. "Look like you having a hard time though. I know all about that. Sit down. I'll share my bagel with you."

"We ate already, thanks." Roger gave a crooked smile and sat down, crossing his legs and glancing at Mark.

"So you wanna explain to me how it is you let this boy out at night?"

"No one tells Mark what to do." Roger gave Mark a knowing look. "He's got his own head."

"Don't look like he should be away from his parents," scoffed Ms. Willie.

"He's only a year younger than me."

"And sitting right here, thank you!" Mark admonished.

"But you know," Roger leaned in, "he can be a handful. Always carrying that camera around and not paying attention to anything else . . ." Mark rolled his eyes.

Ms. Willie laughed. "I likes how you look out for each other. I can see it. You just keep on, because one day won't be no one to look out for you, that's all." She swatted at an invisible insect and settled her thoughts on her bagel. "One day you grow old," she muttered, "won't no one give a damn then."

"You're not old, Ms. Willie," Mark said gently. He couldn't help but notice the lines around her mouth, like she had been frowning a lot lately.

"May as well be." She sniffed, and looked up. " I do thank you for the bagel, though. Now get on. You got a life to live, don't need to be hovering around the likes of me."

Mark turned to Roger, who merely gave a small shrug. "Ms. Willie, I wanted to visit you, let you know that things are okay." But the more he talked to her, the more he had a nagging sense that maybe things weren't okay. "I just wanted to tell you, things are getting kind of rough out there. I wanted to make sure you knew."

She looked at him, and he froze. Her eyes were. . .different. And she started to laugh. It was a sudden, awful, desolate sound, like wolves howling on the plains at night. "YOU THINK I GOT SOMETHING THEY WANT?" she yelled, and Mark sat back on his heels in amazement. He felt Roger's hand on his shoulder, felt himself being pulled up and away from her. "YOU THINK I GOTS SOMETHING? I gots nothing! You here! And I don't want your charity! Now get out! GO!" She moved forward as though to lunge at him, and in that moment Mark felt that this once docile woman would tear his throat out. He stumbled backwards with Roger holding on to the back of his jacket, turning him, forcing him away. Mark looked back once, to see Ms. Willie mumbling loudly at her bagel, rocking gently side to side.

He had to stop. They were two blocks away, and he couldn't take it anymore. He halted abruptly and leaned against a wire fence, feeling the mesh bow and spring back under his weight. He was breathing heavily, and could only close his eyes.

"That's the lady that took care of you?" Roger asked, incredulous.

"She wasn't like that. I swear to god she wasn't like that, I don't know what's wrong with her."

"Maybe you were so out of it you just didn't know she was like that."

"No! She's intelligent, insightful. That's . . .that's not her."

"So you say." Roger glanced back over his shoulder, then checked his watch. "Still got two hours. Wanna roam the park? Don't have money for a movie."

Mark's mouth worked in dismay, like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. He hit the fence instead. "Stupid glasses."

"Hey, those stupid glasses got us lunch. Don't scoff."

"We sat on that bench over there and fed the birds." Mark shook his head in dismay.

Roger ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, I don't know what to tell you about her, man. Maybe she's crazy."

"She's not crazy!"

"How long were you with her?"

"I – don't really know."

"Mm-hm." Roger sighed. "Damn. Should've brought my guitar, could have collected some change or something."

Mark had to chuckle. He tried to push Ms. Willie out of his mind and pulled his camera out of the messenger bag. "Second best thing, I guess." He aimed it at Roger, who threw his hands up and backed off.


	6. Chapter 6

Collins unlocked the door to the loft. He didn't feel like returning to his own place. It was too much of a reminder, the fact that he was there, in his own place, and not with Angel. Angel had left his apartment to Collins, but he couldn't stay there. The friends divided some of his possessions among themselves, and gave the rest away to charity, leaving a skeleton of a vivid life that the grimy walls had no right to contain. He leased the room, and found his own. But it was too lonely at times, and more often that not he was finding himself returning to the loft, to his own home of two years, or was it three? Part of him was tempted to move back in, the boys could sure use some help, and like it or not he did have a steady enough income. Maybe he could get Roger back on his feet. Maybe he could cover things while Mark completed his film.

Maybe he just needed someone to take care of, and to take care of him.

He flung the door open. The loft was a shambles.

Maybe not.

Collins walked in. Mugs were broken, plates busted, and they didn't have that much dinnerware to start with. Clothes littered the area. A mattress was in the corner, old and thin enough to roll halfway over. Collins tossed his key lightly in his hand as he took it all in. The bike was sideways on the floor. He picked it up, noticing the bent wheel, the ripped seat. A thought occurred to him and he hurried downstairs. Mimi didn't answer her door. He ran back up the stairs, through the loft, and onto the fire escape, skidding down the rusted iron stairs until he reached her landing. Peering through the windows showed that she wasn't at home, and that her place looked untouched.

He returned to the loft. A quick sweep showed that nothing was stolen, as far as he could tell. They didn't have much of value. The bike and the projector were still there, miraculously. He examined the projector more closely. It had been tampered with, but didn't look damaged, probably too bulky to mess with. Would have been easier to take the bicycle, it wasn't cheap and damned useful in a place like New York. If this wasn't a burglary, then what the hell was it?

He walked into Roger's room. Music posters were still on the wall, only one or two were ripped. Clothes were in the floor, but that could just as easily have been Roger's own fault. He walked into Mark's room, and that was when his heart stopped in his chest.

It was destroyed. Film posters, the few that he own and was proud of, were shredded. The clothing that wasn't strewn into the main room was torn and piled on the floor. Granted, this entire wardrobe consisted of five shirts, three sweaters and four pairs of pants. Not like a closet full of clothes, and he was pretty sure that two pairs of pants had been sitting on his rack since he had moved out. But now three pair were ripped. Anger? He peeked back into Roger's room. His clothes were intact.

It left a cold feeling in his gut. It was obvious at this point that someone was gunning for Mark personally. It was fortunate that he hadn't been home. But what the hell did they want? The first intrusion, his being taken and then beaten, now this . . . what the hell? "What the hell did you do, boy?" he asked the empty room, and heard a loud curse behind him.

Mark and Roger walked in, as dazed as Collins had been. Roger stopped and put his hands on his hips, but Mark walked further on, his eyes taking in the mess though his new lenses. "Holy shit," he muttered, and turned a helpless expression to Collins. "Hey, are you okay?" Concern flooded him.

"Yeah, yeah, I just got here, let myself in," Collins reassured him. "I wasn't here when this happened."

"What the hell is this?"

Roger sighed heavily and rubbed his face. "Hell week."

"Mark," Collins beckoned him, and stood back as he entered his room. The film maker's expression was neutral. He glanced the room over, noticed his torn clothes, and simply walked over to the couch and sat down.

"Whoever did this," Collins said quietly, "they know who you are. They want something specific."

"I can't believe this." Mark shook his head, then jumped up and rushed over to his projector.

"It's okay," Collins called to his back, "I checked it out earlier. They didn't break it."

Roger pulled Collins aside, watching the way Mark was examining every square inch of the machine. "Maybe he should stay at your place," he muttered.

"Uh-huh, and you too."

"Why?"

"What if they come back and find you here instead of Mark? You think they're just gonna pat you on the head and send you on your way?"

"I'm not going to be terrorized out of my own place," Mark said sternly, obviously overhearing them.

"Fine. Then we present a united front," Roger said. "Collins, you want your room back?"

"You mean rooming with you?"

"Yeah. And maybe we can convince Benny to shack up for a bit."

Collins laughed. "I don't think his wife would approve."

"Oh. Right. I'm not asking the girls, though. In fact, I wonder if Mimi can stay with Joanne for a bit."

"Because she knows Mark?"

"Can't be too careful."

"You guys are blowing this all out of proportion," Mark muttered, fumbling with his camera.

"Twice, Mark! How is that . . .what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm looking at the footage I shot! Is that okay with you? Does it fit into your plan for me?"

"Leave him alone," Collins said quickly as Roger prepared to lay into him. "Let him do his thing."

"Coping, huh?"

"Better than you!"

"Shit." Roger pushed Collins away and walked to the kitchen area. He started a pot of coffee before realizing all the mugs were busted. "Shit!"

"I got some. You just calm down." Collins tossed him the key. "Lock up."

"Right." Roger sighed and locked the door behind Collins. He put his head against the cool metal, then turned to lean against it as he watched Mark. His jacket was off, and he was pulling the film from his camera.

This would take a while. Roger retired to his room. There was a mess to clean up, and oddly enough he was the one to get started on it. He would have imagined that Mark would be the one to pick up, but he obviously had something else on his mind. As long as he didn't take forever, no way in hell was Roger going to clean this shit up all by himself. He had his clothes piled on his bed and was picking up bits of a busted lamp in his doorway, from Mark's room, when Collins returned with his customary knock. Roger let him in, and together they started cleaning up the kitchen while Mark vanished in his project. Several hours later, the kitchen was cleared, the loft decent again. Roger muttered about Mark letting them do all the work, almost missing the weak voice. "Guys?"

He looked up. Mark was staring into the small window of his projector. He straightened and backed away.

Roger hurried over and looked into the projector, and froze, Collins trying to see over his shoulder.

On the film were five men. It was obvious they were dealing, and that Mark had stumbled upon them from a distance. He zoomed in, of course, being Mark, and their faces were plainly seen. So was the large package of blow in one hand, and money in another. There was muted laughter, and that was when Mark realized what he was filming. He cursed under his breath, his sudden fear caught on film. And that was when one turned, and saw him, and saw the camera. The picture shifted to the ground as Mark realized he was in trouble, a loud curse was heard, and yelling, and the picture went crazy as Mark obviously started to run, yelling something about how he was being chased, as though the viewer couldn't tell by the sickening motions. And then the film went black.

Roger and Collins turned to Mark. "When was this?" Roger asked quietly.

He hesitated before answering. "The day before they found me here."

"This is what they're looking for. They know you've got them on film," Collins said.

"Fucking shit," Roger moaned.

Mark was backing away. He bumped into the couch and sat, putting his head in his hands.

Collins sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay." He paced for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Okay. So, what, do we give them the film?"

"What good would that do?" Roger merely stood still, his arms folded against the situation. "They know he can identify them."

"But it would be his word against theirs, and if they were banking on him tattling, they would have, well, you know." He made a discreet slicing motion across his throat.

"So they've branded me a chicken," Mark muttered through his fingers. "Guess that can be a good thing."

"No," Roger snapped, "it's a suck-ass shitty thing!" He agitation caught up with him, and he paced. "Okay. There's a way out of this. We just gotta think."

"Only other option is to go to the cops." Collins leaned back, bracing his hands against the table.

"You could go into protective custody," Roger added.

"Listen to you two!" Mark stood and pushed past Roger, returning to his camera. "Look, this is my problem. Just give me time to think."

Roger stormed over and forced Mark to meet his eyes. "It's _our_ problem," he said sternly. "Don't go thinking for a moment that we're just gonna let you handle this."

"Tempting," Collins muttered.

"Oh, thanks," Mark said sarcastically, but he didn't blame Collins. Nor did he believe him.

"Maybe we should ask Benny what to do." This earned Roger a not-so-gentle whack upside his head, courtesy of Collins.

"Chill, guys. Let me think." Mark sighed heavily. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Just let me think."

It was the only remark they were able to get from him. Collins nudged Roger. "Let's go check on Mimi," he said. "We'll keep an ear out." Roger was about to protest, but Collins pulled him from the room.

"Listen," he said softly as he slid the door closed, "give him a little space. You know Mark, he doesn't like to be crowded. Let him breathe a little, then we'll figure out what to do. Okay?"

Roger huffed as he glanced at the door, and leaned in to Collins as he spoke. "I don't like this," he muttered.

"You act like he can hear you through metal. Let's go check on Mimi and think this through. But don't tell her what's going on, you hear?"

"Are you kidding me? How are we gonna get her to stay with Joanne and Mo?"

Collins hesitated on the stairs, and grinned. "Easy. We'll tell them to call a girls night out."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mark sat on the sofa. His eyes were closed, his glasses on the table before him. His head tilted back against the seat, and his mind raced. He remembered. Everything.

"_We'll kill you, punk!" as he raced away, realizing what he had caught on film. "You hear me? We'll kill you!" And yet they didn't. But the next day, the fight. . . "I'm trying to work here! Can't you go visit Mimi or something? You spend all your time there anyway, so what difference does it make what I'm doing?"_

_Roger was furious. "Oh, _that's_ rich! You're the one telling me I should spend time with her, what time she has left! Thanks for the moral support, by the way!"_

"_Then go! Go spend time with her and leave me alone!"_

"_What is wrong with you?"_

_Mark had spun. "Nothing that your absence wouldn't cure! Now go away!" He didn't want to admit what he had seen, how afraid he was. He didn't want Roger involved._

"_Fine!" Roger huffed, and snatched up his jacket. He grabbed his guitar. "I'll just stay there for a while, huh? You can have the whole damn loft to yourself!"_

_Fine with me, Mark thought, and unrolled his film as the door slid shut with a slam._

_It was an hour later when they arrived. Mark thought Roger was returning. He shouldn't have opened the door._

"Hey." Roger walked over to him. Mark didn't open his eyes.

"How's Mimi?"

"Good." Mark felt the sofa depress as Roger sat next to him.

"I was thinking," Mark said quietly. "I remember it all. I remember filming them, and running for my life. I came right back here, I probably shouldn't have but I wasn't thinking straight, and I thought I'd lost them. Guess they knew where to look for me. That night they came, they kept asking, 'where is it?' and I was scared to tell them anything. I played dumb, told them I didn't know what they were talking about. I didn't want to remember." He swallowed hard. "They pulled me out. They were holding me so tight I couldn't breathe. I yelled out, to tell you, then this big guy put his hand over my mouth and nose, so all I could do was go with them. They put me in a car and took me to an alley, I still don't know where, but the trip wasn't long." He stopped, his eyes still closed.

"They pushed me out," he continued after a moment. "Kept asking where it was. My head was swimming, I think my brain just shut down at that point. I remember being slammed against the wall, being kicked, punched, yelled at," he winced, shaking his head slowly, "I thought they were going to kill me, and all I could think about was that stupid fight we had." He gave a small laugh. "I didn't want to tell you then, about what I'd seen. I was scared for you to be around me, then when I needed you, you weren't there. It was my fault. All of it."

"Why did they just leave you there?" Roger asked quietly.

"I don't know. Someone was keeping watch, and he yelled out something, I got one more kick and they ran. I don't know if it was the cops, or what. But they left me, didn't say another word."

"And this homeless person found you."

"Yeah." Mark managed a small smile. "You remember when you attended your first Life Support meeting? We walked out, and there was a lady being harassed by the cops for sleeping on the sidewalk. I filmed it, and she got mad. You remember?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Mrs. Willie."

"Really? That's her?"

"She recognized me from that day. Said I was the one with the camera."

"You're getting pretty known around here, with that camera of yours. Might ought to be more careful."

"No joke." Mark pulled at his face, and finally opened his eyes and looked at his friend. Roger's close, intense gaze startled him.

He collected himself. "Guess I should give this film to the cops."

"Are you sure?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah. After seeing what that crap did to you . . .yeah. I'm sure."

Roger clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go, then."


	7. Chapter 7

Wow, yeah. Guess I should finish this one, huh? Well, I stopped writing for a while, then got sucked up into other fandoms, so I apologize. And Abby, thanks for hanging in there. I hope you see this update. I've wanted to respond but you're posting as "anon", so I can't! Anyway, here you are, probably one or two more chapters after this one which I hope to crank out. It's short, but it's there. Thanks for reading!

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Officer Billard turned off the projector. "Good thing we still had this in the back. That's quite a film you've got there. Bet you bought yourself a heap of trouble with it."

Mark flinched uncomfortably. "They broke into my apartment looking for it."

"You file a report?"

"Nothing was stolen."

"Just the same. Breaking and entering. What about that face, they bang you up any?" The officer pulled out a chair with a scrape and tapped his yellow memo pad with a pen.

"Thugs," Mark said, looking at the cop. "Just your average, everyday thugs."

Officer Billard leaned forward, fingering the pen. "I know you seem to think we're not doing much for his community, but the truth is we've got our hands full. And someone not telling us the truth just makes our job harder. Now according to this tape, they saw you. Did they catch you?"

Mark twisted uncomfortably. "Yeah."

"So we can add assault to the charges of breaking and entering and illegal drug use. We'll have to see the apartment, of course."

He'd had enough. Mark stood. "Look, as much as I love for the power of the people to prevail, I think I'd rather just leave the tape and go home."

The officer stood as well. "I understand that, son, but you're not safe there. Not if they know where you live. Do you live alone?"

"I have a roommate."

"Both of you need to go into custody, just until we find these guys. Understand?"

"Custody? But I didn't. . ."

"It's a safe house, son. So we know where you are and can keep you safe."

"Safe house." Mark sighed. "For how long?"

"As long as it takes." Officer Billard leaned over his desk. "Listen. We know who these guys are. We just haven't been able to scrape up the evidence needed to prosecute. Now we have it. Would you be willing to testify against these young men in court?"

The prospect was terrifying. "Uh, yeah. Sure. I guess. You sure you can get all of them?"

"It shouldn't be too difficult."

"It has been so far!"

Officer Billard smiled. "I'll introduce you to Officer Grains. He'll get you and your roommate situated."

Mark wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. He wanted to go back to his place, clean up a bit. "Thanks." Great, he didn't even have the energy to resent authority. Of course at the moment, authority was bent on helping him, and he was ready to accept it.

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"Nice." Collins looked around the safe house. "You should film druggies more often, man."

"Can it." Mark sighed and tossed the small duffle on the sofa. He'd been allowed to get a few things, namely a change of clothes and a few books. Roger had his guitar. Collins was just along for the ride. "Gotta make sure my friends are safe," he'd told the cop, pulling himself to an intimidating stance that he probably shouldn't have pulled on an officer, but the cop let it go.

The room was white. Pretty bare, but very clean. The furniture was worn but not impossible. The television was off, and Mark suddenly found that he didn't know what to do with one, it had been so long since he watched. He eyed his books, then eyed the screen.

Roger threw himself on the sofa and gestured at the screen, making the decision for them. "Turn it on."

Collins looked ready to join them, but caught the eye of one of the many guards who would be stationed outside the room. "Look, I'll catch you guys later. You call me as soon as you get out, hear? They won't let me call in this place. You tell me when they spring you from this hellish place they've put you in." He looked around in some envy. "Almost makes me want to go clean my place up."

"Like that'll happen." Roger stood and clapped Collins on the shoulder, then pulled him close into a hug. "You watch yourself," he said quietly.

"You too," Collins said. "And watch him too. He'll get a room cramp and wanna go out filming something."

"I think he's gone off filming for a while," Roger said, glancing over his shoulder.

"Shame." Collins patted Roger's arm and gave Mark a fake salute. Then he was gone, and the room fell uncomfortably silent, despite the noise of the television.

Roger turned and looked at Mark, who was faking concentration on a talk show. He glanced around. Not much to do, really. A few magazines on the table. The tv, of course. There was a small kitchen, and he wandered over to check out the cabinets. Couple of cans of soup, a box of cereal. "Man, you people know how to stock this place," he muttered, wondering how long the soup had been on the shelf. The sell-by date was far off, so he pulled down two cans and looked for a pot to heat it in. Ten minutes later, he and Mark were sipping on wonderfully warm broth while watching cartoons.

"You know," Mark said once his bowl was empty, "I could get used to this. Told them not to bring me here."

"Gonna make the loft harder to live in, that's for sure. Course it's better than me scraping you off the sidewalk, so I'll live with a little disappointment."

Mark smirked, and said nothing.

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The news came two days later. Six men had been caught, all between the ages of seventeen and twenty. They had given chase, and shots were fired. One officer was hit, as well as a bystander. The leader, a gruff, tattooed boy called Wart, swore revenge on the "red-haired fascist with the camera". Officer Grains remarked that he was impressed the hooligan knew the word, though he apparently had no clue what it meant. And they were taken away.

"So you're free to go," Officer Billard said as Grains fumbled with some paperwork. "I'll let you know when the trial date is set."

Mark looked relieved, but Roger put a restraining hand on his arm. "Hang on, I thought people usually stayed in these places until the trial was done and people were in jail."

"No guarantee they're going to jail."

Mark's eyes widened. "Wait, you're saying they can skip out and show up on the streets again? What about me?"

"Son, I'm sure they'll be prosecuted. You'll be just fine." And the officer seemed to lose interest, since his part of the case was complete.

Roger hesitated, then pulled at Mark's arm. "Come on. We'll get a watchdog or something."

"Just put Benny out front."

"You really hate the guy, don't you?" Roger steered Mark to the waiting cab.

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Two weeks passed. Two weeks of cleaning, dumping, and looking out of the corner of their eyes everywhere they went. To Mark's surprise, the trial was immediate and quick, with all members of the gang prosecuted. Even after it, he walked the streets hunched over, and jumped when he was jostled by people in a hurry to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what that at one time he would have filmed. His camera hadn't been touched. It sat on his bike, which he hadn't touched. That was in the corner with his film canisters and projector. . .which hadn't been touched.

Instead, he was filling his days with reading and volunteering at the center. Looking after Roger and Mimi. Debating with Collins. Arguing with Benny. And trying to find a new path for himself, one that wouldn't cause him and his friends so much grief.

It was hard. Damned hard.

But it went on for three weeks after the trial, then over a month. He hated the way Roger looked at him mournfully, without saying anything. Or the way Maureen would casually ask if he wanted to see a film. He didn't want anything to do with films. Not now. Not ever.

He didn't go to see Ms Willie. He was afraid of what he would find.

And so he spent a lot of time wandering the streets. Filling his head with half-dreams that he only half-heartedly wanted. Curling his shoulders protectively over his slight frame even though the weather was warming slightly. If his friend noticed his new stance, they didn't say anything, and didn't blame him. They just waited impatiently for him to come home from his hours at the center, which was dripping towards late night as he struggled to lose himself in a different activity.

He was engrossed in thinking about one activity, a play that a small group wanted to put on, a sort of La Boheme set in modern day. The streetlights played over him as he walked. He wasn't the only person out by any means. But suddenly he knew, he _knew_, he was being followed.

Mark was suddenly too scared to look back. The loft was right in front of him, two buildings down, and he could see Roger out on the iron balcony, waiting for him. He glanced up quickly, then hunched over more and kept walking. He couldn't go in. He couldn't bring whoever was following him to his friends. He had to lose him. So he rounded the corner, and took off running.

The sound of pounding feet followed him, as did a distant yell which he hoped wasn't Roger's voice. He slipped on the small stones and banged into the wall as he rounded another corner and pounded down the street, trying to get a far away from his friends as possible, trying to lure the danger after him. He didn't let himself question what he was doing, why he was trying to be a martyr. Maybe he had a death wish. Maybe he was so depressed that he wanted it all over. Funny how now, he knew how Roger felt, except Roger had death hanging over his head. Mark didn't.

Or did he?

No. If he did, he wouldn't still be running five blocks later, his steps clumsy with fatigue, arms pinwheeling with the effort of forcing himself further along. The river was ahead of him, and he launched himself towards the water, skidding down the embankment, hoping to lose his pursuer in the darkness underneath the bridge where the streetlights couldn't follow.

He didn't count on the man knowing the area. He didn't know the man had trained athletically, that he was bearing down on Mark, almost with him. All he knew was one minute he was free, and the next he was on his face in the grass, the ill scent of the river in his nostrils. He was rolled, and looked into the face of a man that probably wanted to kill him.

He was pulled to his feet and shoved backwards. There was no reason to run, and nowhere to go. Mark held his stance, still ready to flee, but knowing he was caught.

The man glared at him. "You shit. You know how much trouble you caused us? Cop's been lookin'. Now I wonder why they've been lookin'? Could it be because someone ratted on us?" The black man shoved Mark's shoulder hard.

"Maybe if you weren't doing something illegal in the first place you wouldn't have a problem!" he said, self-righteously, knowing he was about to get his ass kicked. Something about that knowledge made him feel brave.

"Oh," the man laughed menacingly, "you just said the wrong thing there, asshole. I was supposed to bring you back so we can skin you alive. Too bad."

We? "I thought they got all of you."

That was the wrong thing to say. The man reached out and grabbed Mark.

Mark had no idea what the man planned on doing to him. He fought back, felt himself whipped around and pulled into a firm chest, and gripped in a choke hold as the man whispered into his ear. "I got nothin' thanks to you. They raided my place, I can't go back there. They arrested my little brother. He ain't even involved, and they got him. Now who do I have to thank for that, huh?" He tightened his hold, and Mark gasped. He tried to breathe as the man continued to talk, threatening him, a silver blade of his pocket knife glinting in the moonlight. Gouging out his eyes so he couldn't see through his camera, slicing his guts, cutting off his fingers, Mark lost track of the threats. The man holding him seemed to enjoy feeling Mark's pulse race. He kept talking, doing little, but Mark had no doubt that when it came down to it, he was a dead man.

And then he heard a noise that made his blood freeze in his veins.

"Mark?" A voice cut through the threats, light and questioning and desperate. Mark managed to catch a glimpse of a figure on the bridge above him, moving to look over the wrong side.

Oh, no. No, Roger couldn't be here. But he was, and Mark fought only slightly with the notion of protecting his friend. Self-preservation won out. "Roger! Help me!" He wasn't even sure he said it out loud, though he tried to. The one thought that kept going through his mind was, help me. Help me! But he must've said it out loud, because he heard Roger call out his name in fear. And the attack began.

And Mark prepared to die, right there in front of his friend.

Roger heard the voice. Panic registered. If there was one thing Mark never did, it was ask for help. He ran to the opposite side of the bridge and saw him from above, fighting for his life. "Mark!" He slapped his hands on the railing angrily and hauled ass down the length of the bridge, keeping an eye on his friend below as he struggled with the man. A punch to the jaw had Mark down, and he disappeared in the blackness of the man's coat as his attacker leaned over him.

Shit. No – nononono . . .Roger's heart pounded as he pushed his shaky legs forward, forcing them to cooperate. He reached the end of the bridge and swung around the side, stumbling over the rocky slope that led down to the attacker. They were right in front of him. Right there, he could see them, see the man, see Mark on the ground beneath him.

He saw the man stand, pulling Mark to his feet, his hand wrapped around Mark's throat. Mark was trying to beat off the grip, twisting at his attacker's wrists, gasping for air. His head jolted at a punch, then another, and he let loose as his consciousness apparently faded. "Stop!" Roger yelled, realizing his mistake too late. He froze as the man looked at him, saw a flicker of recognition in Mark's expression before his eyes closed. His heart stopped as his friend was suddenly shoved backwards off the hill, into the cold river water. The attacker ran.

So did Roger. He ran to the spot where Mark had crashed into the water, desperately searching for his friend. He saw a hand emerge, and dove in.

The water was frozen black, and it was all he could do not to yell out in shock and suck it in. His limbs felt heavy and sluggish. He forced himself up, gasping. "Mark? Mark!" Roger whipped his head around frantically, and caught a glimpse of a blond head before it ducked under. He grabbed, and caught hold of a jacket, pulling his friend up for air, wrapping an arm around him as he gasped, struggling to keep them both afloat. "I gotcha, I gotcha, hang on," he said loudly over the current that tried to sweep them away. Mark's plaid coat was sodden, dragging them down. Roger fought against the current, fought against the weight. Mark managed to come to his senses enough to help, and together they made their was through the water, each spurring the other on.

"What the hell's going on down there?" a voice called out from above. Roger could just make out a figure on the end of the bridge walking down to them, steps jerking. He tried his hardest to swim to it, half pulling Mark along with him.

They crawled onto shore, coughing, shivering, and landed at the feet of Ms.Willie.

"Well, I'll be," she said, "just seem to get you out of all sort of trouble, don't I?"

Mark just looked up at her as Roger rolled over and groaned.

Mark didn't know the homeless had so many blankets. He was stripped down and wearing clothes that came from a god-only-knew-who-but-please-don't-be-dead person that used to live in the tent near Ms. Willie. He and Roger were bundled together. The tent smelled like something dead, but with his rising body heat combined with Roger's and the fire barrel at his feet, he found he didn't care. Both his arms were around Roger, warming him, trying to still the shivering, terrified of the man catching pneumonia that could very well end his life. "Y-y-you s-s-s-shouldn't have jumped in . . ." he chattered. "Asshole." He tightened his grip.

"Oh, I g-g-uess I could've let you drown," Roger retorted as bet he could as he folded in on himself. He was freezing. He had never felt so cold, and his chest was lead.

"Could've . . .got back . . ." Mark insisted.

"Bullshit." Roger looked up as Ms. Willie entered.

"Any warmer?" she asked, bent down underneath the flap of the tent.

"G-g-g-getting there," Mark replied, his grip on Roger not lessening.

"You got all we have," she said, almost apologetically. "Got Art and Jonah out there huddled around a barrel, and Cindy's wearing three coats. Try tellin' her she only gots to have two."

"We're fine, thank you." Roger looked up at the woman through reddened eyes.

She tutted and bent down. "You don't look too good."

Mark had to agree. "Listen, can you sit with him a minute? I need to make a call."

"Sure, but you don't need to be going out there any more than he do."

"No choice." Mark unwrapped himself and watched as Ms. Willie settled in, pulling Roger's head to her chest. "I'll be quick."

"You do that. I gots me some soup waiting, an it don't plan on waitin' much longer." The way she stroked Roger's long hair from his forehead showed she wasn't serious.

Mark hugged himself and hurried out of the tent.

The black Range Rover pulled up almost hesitantly. Mark felt blue by this point, if he had any feeling left. He waited as Benny got out and looked around him, then walked forward impatiently. "Come on already!" he snapped, and started to lead Benny to the tent.

"What the hell are you wearing?"

"Something not wet. Get over here, he needs a hospital." There was an air of panic in Mark's voice that Benny wasn't used to hearing, and he kept up step with Mark. They ducked into a tent, and seconds later Benny was carrying out a half-conscious Roger, Mark trying to keep the blankets from sliding off of him. He was bundled into the heated vehicle, stretched over the backseat. Mark took as many blankets as he dared off his friend and handed them back to Ms. Willie.

"I'll get the others back to you as soon as I can," he promised quickly as he climbed into the passenger seat.

"Just you send word of your friend back with them," she said. "Now go."

And the Rover sped off into the night.

Mark watched helplessly as the hospital staff placed Roger onto a gurney. He saw the nods when he explained that Roger was HIV positive. He turned to Benny, he was certain he did, he remembered seeing the look of surprise on the dark face as he collapsed.

tbc...


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